


Tarts

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hughes and Patmore, and tarts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tarts

"You're a tart."

"No,  _you're_  one."

"You're a  _Scottish_  tart, at that."

Elsie deepens her voice, stands on her tiptoes, grimaces. "Mrs. Patmore, you frolic with prostitutes."

Beryl widens her stance, frowns, struts across the kitchen. "You have no standards, Mrs. Hughes, you disappoint me."

The two women collapse with laughter on the flour-strewn counter where the beginnings — or ends — of a baking project are spread. The cook wipes her eyes and reaches for her glass of lager again.

"Why'd you want to learn how to make an apple tart, anyway?"

Elsie looks coy, wipes her hands on a towel, begins putting the latticework over the dish of spiced apples. "None of your concern. I just want to is all." A faint pinkness steals into her cheeks and she busies herself making sure the alternating strips of dough are placed exactly right, precisely in a pretty criss-cross design.

It won't be as good as Mrs. Patmore's, she knows, but it's his birthday. It's his birthday and no one ever does anything for him — she gives him a small gift, of course, but she has no money this year after the doctor bills. Elsie is determined anyway, determined that he will have something from her. Something to know she hasn't forgotten.

Never will forget.

"Here, you've got to crimp the edges down good and hard or it'll go to pieces when it starts to bake — like this —" She shows Elsie how to pinch the dough between thumb and forefinger until it melds, makes a seal, shows her how to slam the bottom of the pan down on the counter to make it all settle evenly with no big pockets of air. Teaches her how to sprinkle sugar over the top so it will sparkle and glitter when done.

"I think we're ready for the oven, then." She turns away and puts it on the middle rack, between the other pies she's baking for the night, and bangs the door shut. Turns back to Elsie and gestures for her to follow.

"You know," Beryl says over her shoulder, "I'd almost think you were makin' this for someone important, the trouble you're goin' to." She smirks, pulls out a chair at the table in the corner. It's where she eats, where the kitchen girls eat, and it occurs to Mrs. Hughes that her friend is never actually out of the kitchen, really. Never given respite from the hot stoves and the smell of food and the endless work.

"Mrs. Patmore, you should come have tea with me more often. Get out of this forsaken kitchen sometimes." Elsie leans forward, curls into her arms on the table. Props her chin on her hand.

The cook shrugs. "That isn't what we're discussin', now is it?" She looks at Elsie for a long moment. "It's his birthday, innit? Don't give me that look, it is. I know it's this month, at any rate."

Mrs. Hughes doesn't deny it, just looks down at the clean wood beneath her arms elbows, and begins to draw a little meaningless pattern with her finger. Doesn't answer.

She continues, her voice gentling a little. "When are one of you goin' to say something? None of us are gettin' any younger, and — " She hesitates; she knows how Elsie is touchy about him, hot and cold, sometimes fond as flowers of him and sometimes can't stand the sight of the man. Beryl can sympathize; he's a difficult man to get along with sometimes and he seems to say all the wrong things to Elsie.

"I know he can be thickheaded, but he's a good man."

Elsie looks up, makes a frustrated gesture, taps on the tabletop. "I know he's a good man, Mrs. Patmore. I know. Don't you think  _I know_?" She knows he's a good man, she knows he's a good _many_  things — a good man, a good butler, a good leader, a good superior.

What she doesn't know is if he cares about being good at anything else. A good suitor, a good lover.

A good husband.

She thinks, when she thinks of it which isn't often, that he could be.

She also thinks, and she thinks this often, that he doesn't want to be. There is something between them, something unspoken, something beyond the confines of service, but she has no name for it.

He had sang for her. When she wasn't sick, when she was well, when she wasn't dying. He had sang there in the silver room, polished the silver jauntily.

She smiles sadly at Mrs. Patmore, who reaches across the table, pats her hand with small strong fingers. And like she does sometimes, as they have started doing more often as their friendship has grown, deepened, turned into that dependable and bonded relationship that women friends have, she reads Elsie's mind.

"I  _know_  he's an old dunce sometimes, but — remember, you stole his heart away."


End file.
